


songs of innocence and experience

by specficslut (homosociality)



Series: home as a borderless metaphor [4]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Erik Lehnsherr Defense Squad, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociality/pseuds/specficslut
Summary: When the arrival of a Genoshan diplomatic party threatens Erik's hard-won peace of mind, his children take matters into their own hands.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr & Peter Maximoff, Erik Lehnsherr & Wanda Maximoff, Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Laura Kinney & Erik Lehnsherr, Nina Gurzsky & Erik Lehnsherr
Series: home as a borderless metaphor [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868485
Comments: 14
Kudos: 106





	songs of innocence and experience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flightinflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/gifts).



> Warnings: sexual reference by a villainous character in front of a minor, threatened violence to a child.

FIRST ACT: PETER

The first Peter hears of trouble encroaching on his little world is when Papa storms out of the chambers he shares with Father, wiping tears from his eyes, blustering past him and Wanda without even a look. Wanda, who is so sensitive to other people’s emotions she should’ve been born a telepath, immediately sniffles. Peter peeks into Father’s bedchambers and sees Father resting on the bed heavily, his head in his hands. “Father?” Peter calls out.

Father doesn’t look up. “Yes, Peter?” he says.

“Why was Papa crying?”

Father lifts his head slowly, seeming to register Peter’s presence for the first time. “Is Wanda with you?” he asks.

“Mmhmm. She’s crying, too.”

Father, without reaching for his crutch, comes over to the door and knocks on it for the guards to push it open further. He sweeps up Wanda in his arms and lets her sniffle into his neck. “Papa just got some bad news, that’s all.”

“Is he all right?” Peter asks worriedly.

“I…” Father sighs. “I don’t know. In time, he will be, I hope. For now, let him have some space.” Peter knows what that means: when Papa is upset, he goes to ride, and this time Father won’t follow him out and badger him into forgiving whatever he’s done or however Westchester has upset him this time. Peter knows that his Papa is from Genosha, and they do things very differently there, and sometimes Papa still gets very homesick, although when that happens Peter and Wanda and Nina climb into his lap and he snuggles them and tells them that he wouldn’t trade them for anything, not even the chance to go back to what had once been his home, because _they_ are his home now.

This feels different, though. He opens his mouth to ask Father another question, but Father gently presses a finger to his lips and said, “We’ll talk about it later,” in that Kingly tone of voice that means _If you ask about it more I’ll have you in mathematics lessons for a week with an armed guard so you can’t sneak out of them,_ so Peter shuts his mouth and just curls into Father’s side. “Tell me about your studies,” Father says, the way he always does, and Peter tells him the funny story about the frog in his tutor’s trousers, and Father tries very hard to make his mouth frown but winds up chuckling anyway. And Papa returns in time for dinner, and wipes Peter’s mouth as always and scolds him for making such a mess as always and helps cut up Nina’s food as always, and Peter forgets about it.  
  
  
  
Until Laura, legs swinging over the parapet as they watch her father and Logan train the soldiers, says, “Mama says Genosha’s King is coming for dinner.”

Jean would know. She’s their sister, sort of, but she handles all the diplomatic things and likes to threaten Peter with having to help her sort out correspondence and other deathly dull tasks, because he’s going to grow up to be an omega, and that means he can’t fight, but he can be a diplomat like Jean. Wanda perks up when Laura says this.

“Genosha doesn’t have a king,” she says bossily. “They’ve got a—a—Chief-ten. Something like that.”

“Well, that, then,” Laura says, unbothered. Laura is Wanda’s friend too, because she doesn’t mind Wanda bossing her. Peter does, but he’s accepted his sister for her shortcomings, because Papa says that’s what family means. “Their Chief-ten is coming to renew the treaty. It’s been ten whole years since the last time they were here.”

“Are we having a feast?” Nina asks, her mind, as usual, mostly occupied by questions of food.

“Yes, but Mama’s not happy about it,” Laura says, which is also unusual. Jean _loves_ throwing feasts to welcome visiting diplomats. She gets very into all the kitchen details and things and who sits next to where and what the entertainments will be. If Peter had his way, there would be jugglers at _every_ feast, but Jean says they need _variety._ “She said a bad word.”

Wanda bounces on her feet excitedly. “Maybe we can help translate.”

“Jean speaks Genoshan, dummy,” Peter tells her.

“Well, maybe she’ll need some help,” Wanda says stubbornly. “I bet she’d let me help if I asked her.”

Well, if Wanda is helping, that means Peter was free to go running around. Even though they are different people, other people tend to think that if you tell one of them something, you tell both of them something, and in fairness, it’s often true. Maybe he can hang around the stables. Genoshans have the _best_ horses in the world, everyone says, and Papa’s horse is Genoshan, and she outruns all their other horses every time they go riding together. Maybe he can convince someone to give him a horse that is as fast as Papa’s. Wouldn’t that be a surprise! Not only would Papa not be able to catch him on the ground, he wouldn’t be able to catch him on horseback either. Peter likes to go fast. 

Nina, who is only a touch younger than Laura but still such a _baby_ , clings to Wanda’s tunic as she leads them all the way down to Jean’s study, where she is writing something, but spending more time looking ahead of her at the bookshelf than actually writing. “Jean,” Wanda says, sweet as spun sugar, “do you want me to help you translate when the Genoshan Chief-ten comes?”

But Jean pales, and says, sharp-edged, “No! Absolutely not,” and Wanda’s face crumples. Peter bares his teeth at her. Wanda is bossy and annoying, but she’s his sister, and younger by twelve minutes, and that meant he needs to take care of her, even from Jean. “Listen to me,” Jean says, softer, and she kneels down in front of them to make herself smaller. She gazes at each of them, Wanda and Peter and Nina, and only Laura hangs back, because she can sense this isn’t for her. “It would make Prince Erik _very_ happy if you just… stayed out of the way when the Genoshan party arrives, all right? He has… history with the Genoshan Chieftain, and he can’t concentrate on… on being polite and courtly if he has to worry about you hellions, all right?”

Wanda sniffles. “Okay,” she says quietly.

“Okay,” Nina parrots.

“Okay,” Peter says, although in his mind he is already thinking about how to find out more.  
  
  
  
It’s Logan who tells him eventually, as is usual. Everyone thinks they’re such _babies_ all the time, but Wanda and Peter are nine, almost old enough to Present, and Logan knows that. When Peter asks, Logan sighs and leans back against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead; he’s been practicing his forms by himself, shadow-boxing, and still smells of exertion. “You little brats never did the math?” he says, almost gently. “Ten years ago was when your Papa came to court. His marriage to your father was part of the treaty the Genoshans are coming to renew.”

“But why would that make Papa sad?” Peter asks.

Logan eyes him. “Your sister put you up to this?” he asks, and Peter shakes his head. She _would,_ Wanda is always poking into people’s secrets and hoarding them for herself, but no, this curiosity is all his own. “Well, your Papa didn’t come here as a representative of his people, the way you and your sister will be when you get married. He came here as a captive, because Shaw—the Chieftain who’s coming—had deposed his father,” Logan says. Peter gets the sense that Logan is speaking around something, some terrible black hole that no one wants him or Wanda to know, and he grits his teeth. How is he supposed to _protect his family_ when no one will tell him the _truth_? “Your Papa had a rough time of it when he first came here, kid. Seeing Shaw again will probably bring up all of those bad memories.”

“What kind of bad memories?” Peter persists.

“For that, you gotta ask your Papa,” Logan says. Peter scowls.

“I don’t want to make him sad,” he admits. Logan cracks a rare smile.

“Kid, I don’t think he could ever be sad if you’re the one askin’,” he says.  
  
  
  
So he asks. Logan is wrong.

Papa bites his lip, and great sorrow crosses his face. He sweeps Peter up into his lap and strokes his hair, and Peter squirms, because he’s too old for that, but secretly he likes it. “Logan was right,” he says, slowly. He smells like winterberries and sage and cold, clean ice. Peter buries his face in Papa’s shoulder and inhales that comforting scent, like he’s a baby again. He thinks perhaps he’ll need it for what comes next. “Shaw deposed my father and took me captive. He,” he sighs. “He killed everyone else in my family, my little hummingbird, so that there would be no one to oppose him. For a long time I wished I could join them.” Peter makes a soft whimpering noise and shakes his head. Papa cards his fingers through his hair and sighs. “But then I came here, and there was Father, and then there were you and Wanda, and I’ve never felt that way again.”

“Is that why you told Father to be mean to the uprising in the south last year?” Peter asks quietly.

“I—yes,” Papa laughs, a little surprise in his tone. “I didn’t realize you were paying attention. Yes, I know what it is to lose a throne, my little hummingbird, and I never want you or your sisters or your Father to experience it.” He presses a kiss to Peter’s forehead. “Are you more interested in Court now?”

“I only noticed ‘cause Laura said Jean was surprised at you,” Peter admits. “I like the stories about battle! But all the soldiers seemed really sad so I didn’t ask.”

“Putting down an uprising is always a difficult task for soldiers, because it is their own people they are struggling against,” Papa tells him. “But you—and they—needn’t worry any longer. The lord responsible for inciting the people against your Father languishes in the dungeon. He won’t be doing that again.” Papa has a sort of vicious satisfaction in his voice that reminds Peter that he used to be a warrior, and though he has not ridden out to battle in many years, he has still kept his skills sharp—had indeed killed an assassin that made it to the King’s bedchambers not three years ago and had stood bloody-handed and smiling in the aftermath.

“Now,” Papa says, settling his arms more comfortably around Peter, “tell me what mischief you’ve been up to,” the way he _always_ does, the same way Father always says, _Tell me about your studies._ And Peter launches into a rollicking tale about trying to steal his favorite, the fried dough pastries, from Cook, and how she’d found him and had had all the windowsills slicked with butter so the next time he tried to use his gift to sneak into the kitchen faster than anyone could catch him, he would skid and fall on the slick cobblestones. He shows off his scraped knees and palms to Papa, who kisses them better, and tells him, smiling, that he mustn’t antagonize Cook or she’ll spit in his food, and sends him off so cheerful and ready to cause more mischief that he almost forgets what Papa told him. About his family. About his pain.

Almost.  
  
  
  
Peter calls a conclave of prince and princesses under his bed, and Wanda and Nina squeeze under there with him, and when Laura joins them they can get started. Laura isn’t _technically_ a princess, but she’s Jean’s daughter, and Jean is Charles’s ward, and that means she is _kind_ of a princess all the same. Peter lays down on his belly and tells everyone what he learned about Papa and the man the servants call Lord Shaw. Wanda sniffles when he tells them about the uncles and aunts and grandfather and grandmother they’ve never known and how they’d all died by Lord Shaw’s hand, but he tells her to stop crying and with a tremulous scowl she gathers herself and says, “So what do we do?”

“What do we _do?”_ Laura asks, like it’s obvious. “We keep him away from Uncle Erik.” She clenches her fist, and her claws _schlick_ out between her knuckles. “If he gets anywhere _close_ I’ll slash ‘im.”

“You can’t do _that,”_ Wanda says. “He’s a King.”

“Genoshans don’t have Kings,” Peter reminds her.

“Whatever,” Wanda says exasperatedly. “If we kill him, we’ll start a war. And I don’t think Papa wants to go to war with Genoshans, or he’d have convinced Father to do it by now.” The others consider the wisdom of this, then nod in agreement. It’s an open secret in the court how much the Royal Consort has the King wrapped around his fingers. 

“Maybe,” Nina says, “we can just make his stay… really bad? I could talk to their horses and get them to bite him.”

Peter grudgingly has to admit that it’s not a half-bad idea. Everyone expects Nina to come up with grand plans all the time because she’s the _heir_ , and Wanda and Peter are only omegas, but Nina is quiet and pleasant and likes to follow them around whatever they decide, and Peter is the oldest, so if anything _he_ ought to be the one making the plans. Still, part of being a good leader, Father says, is acknowledging when someone else has had a good idea. “Okay. Wanda, can you put cracks in the stonework like you did when you threw that tantrum? Maybe we can freeze them to death. Then no one will start a war because it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

Wanda chews at her lip. “I can try, but last time Father got _really_ mad…”

“That’s just because you might have brought the tower down,” Peter says dismissively. “No one will care if you bring the East Wing down.” 

A plan is coming into shape now. “I can stick with Uncle Erik,” Laura volunteers. “And if any of the Genoshans get close I’ll slash ‘em.”

Peter nods. “I’ll hang around the Genoshans and if they get close I’ll run and tell you, and you can lead him away,” he says.

They work out a set of rules about feasts and celebrations, and then Peter dismisses the council. Laura drags Nina off to go perch in the trees and pelt passer-bys with berries, but Wanda sticks around. She frowns at the state of Peter’s room, then picks up the doll Papa made for Peter when they were very young from a shelf. Her version is nestled in her bed, and she still hugs it to go to sleep. “Do you think this will work?” she asks anxiously.

“Of course it will,” Peter says. He tries not to frown at her. Wanda feels _so_ much sometimes. She’ll get anxious, sometimes for no reason at all, and her black moods last a long time, sometimes weeks, with no one except Peter able to draw her out of them. He wonders if it had been a mistake telling her about their family-that-had-never-been, but he shrugs that off. _He_ would have resented it being kept secret from him, and though Wanda was more delicate than he was, he knows that she feels the same way about being treated like a grown-up.

Wanda sneaks her hand into Peter’s. “You don’t have to act with me,” she says. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll need a back-up plan.”

Peter sighs at her, but he knows she’s right. This is why, even though Wanda is annoying, she is his closest friend, too. “Okay,” he says. “What are you thinking?”

Wanda tells him.  
  
  
  
The Genoshans come two and a half weeks after that. Two and a half weeks of Papa picking at his food, of shadows under his eyes that speak of nightmares, of Father looking worried and tired as well, trying to position himself between Papa and the world like he can keep him safe that way. Peter, Wanda, Nina, and Laura watch the Genoshan party arrive—no carriages, just horses—from the tall parapets where they watched the soldiers train. “They _look_ like normal people,” Nina says doubtfully. But only Father and Jean are greeting them, where for as long as they can remember Papa has stood at Father’s right elbow when he greets visiting diplomats.

Peter squints down at the man at the head of the diplomatic party. He can’t make out many details—Shaw is tall, much taller than Father, maybe even taller than Papa, and he is flanked by four courtiers. He is wearing a thick fur cloak, but Peter knows that Genoshan is farther south than Westchester, and that Papa still gets very cold during the winters, wandering around in a cloak indoors. It isn’t yet winter, but autumn has arrived with the hint of a tooth-grinding chill, and all the Genoshans, except for a sparkling woman, are bundled up tightly. Father strides out to shake hands with Lord Shaw. Peter knows by the set of his shoulders that he is angry, but as far as he can tell, the pleasantries and greetings last as long as ever.

When Father gestures for Shaw and his courtiers to accompany him inside, Peter nods sternly. “Papa’s out meeting with the city omegas.” Papa fights fiercely for omega rights, and has set up a collective for omegas that had need to leave their mates for one reason or another in the city. Technically there is nothing urgent about this visit, and Peter suspects Papa had just wanted out of the castle while the envoy was arriving. “Laura, you wait by the side door for his return.”

“I’ll go see if I can hear the negotiations from the little passage overlooking the grand hall,” Wanda volunteers.

“Come get me when they’re done,” Peter says. Wanda and Laura nod, and then split off from the group. Peter looks at Nina. “Do you want to try to talk to their horses?”

“Yes!” Nina cheers, and Peter takes her hand and leads her down to the stables, where Nina is a fixture, and all the stablehands have long since stopped bowing to her and calling her “Your Highness.”

Nina chatters with the horses, reporting to Peter that they are treated very well and are generally content with their lot but would bite their handlers if Nina asks very nicely and also brings them sugar cubes. Wanda comes to get Peter after only thirty minutes, and Peter zips away, moving quickly enough that he won’t be spotted. The Genoshans are loitering outside the grand hall, Jean smiling a smile that is more of a grimace as she translates between Shaw and Father. Father offers to take Shaw and the rest hunting, and Shaw nods, and Peter breathes a sigh of relief. It seems that their Father hads decided to do the same thing as his children, and keep Shaw as occupied as possible so that he will have no opportunity to ask after Papa.

It isn’t until they leave that Papa returns from the city. Peter stations himself at the front entrance, waiting for the hunting party to return—Father hates hunting, the long hours of stalking prey aggravates his leg, and he must _really_ want to keep Shaw away from Papa. They don’t return until very soon before the feast is scheduled, and by that time Papa is shut up in Father’s study. Father shows the Genoshans to the guest rooms to freshen up, and Peter is just deciding that it’s safe when Wanda appears and tugs on his tunic sleeve.

“Papa is looking for you,” she says. “He wants to get us into our feast clothing.”

Peter scowls. He hates his feast clothing. The embroidery is itchy and the collar stiff and uncomfortable. But just this once, he goes without forcing his Papa to chase him down throughout the castle, because he doesn’t want to risk Papa running into Shaw.

Papa forces him into the stiff ornamental shirt and trousers he has to wear, and pours Wanda and Nina into their dresses, then does up his own shirt. He is quiet, not joking with them about the smallness of the buttons and the weight of the gold coronet he wears to mark his status. Nina clings to his hand, but doesn’t say anything; even she, small as she is, can tell that this is different from the other feasts, which had been full of laughing and food and small entertainments, like Papa making the forks dance on the table for their guests. Papa stares at himself in the polished bronze mirror, his fists clenched, before he takes a shaky breath and smiles a tremulous smile at his children.

“Shall we?” he says softly, and takes Peter’s hand in one of his and Wanda’s in his other, and Peter bears it because he thinks that Papa isn’t making sure they’re not getting into mischief this time but drawing strength from their presence.

The kitchens make different food whenever a diplomatic envoy is coming, but today the fare looks normal: roasts, breads, fresh fruits. Nina steals a grape from a passing tray. When they enter the feasting hall, Papa directs them to their seats—Nina at Father’s left hand, Peter and Wanda at Papa’s right, the seats across them empty for their honored guests. What Peter hates most about feasts is the long wait for the guests to be seated, then the food to be brought out—a wait he never has to endure when he’s taking dinner with the rest of his family in Father’s chambers, like they do most nights. Today, to make matters worse, the tension thickens the air like soup; at his left, Father is clutching Papa’s hand so tightly their knuckles have gone white. The courtiers rise when the Genoshan envoy files in, and he feels Papa stiffen beside him before he and Father rise as well to greet them.

Peter examines Lord Shaw closely. He has a narrow, hollowed-out, cruel face with light eyes that gleam when they set on Papa in his finery. Beside him, Peter hears Papa breathe, a swift inhale that is so quiet that he doesn’t even think Wanda, on his other side, hears it. Lord Shaw strides forward, bowing to Father when he gets close enough to the table. Father bows back, his neck stiff. Then Lord Shaw turns that fawning, terrible grin on Papa, and holds out his hand.

Slowly, slowly, Papa lifts his own hand and placed it in Shaw’s. Shaw bends down and kisses it.

The expression that crosses Papa’s face at that moment is—Peter has never seen anything like it. Hatred and disgust, yes, but _fear,_ too, and that makes Peter’s hackles rise because Papa isn’t afraid of _anything,_ even when Father fell ill with the fever and everyone thought he might die, Papa nursed him, even though he was pregnant, and put Peter and Wanda to bed with firm, calm hands, and soothed their tears with lullabies and reassurances that everything would be all right. Even when _Father_ was afraid, trying to make preparations so that Papa and Peter and Wanda would be taken care of, Papa was sure and steady, as unafraid as he’d been when Wanda had fallen off her pony for the first time, when Nina had come gasping into the world.

Shaw lingers over Papa’s hand longer than is strictly proper, and at last Papa jerks his hand away, folding it into a fist; Father gently takes that hand, encases it in his own fingers, but not before a titter goes through the Genoshan crowd. “Forgive them,” Shaw says quietly to Papa—in the tongue Papa uses with him and Wanda and Nina, and sometimes Jean, and how had Peter failed to realize that _Genoshans_ coming to court would mean that he and his family would no longer be the only ones speaking Genoshan?—”Memories are slow to fade. They remember when you were a boy, and I had you caged naked at the foot of my throne, and it… _amuses_ them to see you now.”

Papa has gone bone-white. “You will not,” he says, in Westchesterian, “speak like that to me in front of my children.”

Jean repeats it in Genoshan, but Shaw doesn’t seem to need the clarification; he is already casting a glance at Peter and Wanda, and then at Nina, and Peter shudders under that cool gaze, which sparkles with unholy delight, as though the man has just won a great game. “Of course, of course,” Shaw says, still in Genoshan, which sounds _so wrong_ coming from anyone but Papa or his sisters—Shaw speaks more quickly, and with a slick sibilance that sends Peter’s skin crawling—”forgive me, _Your Highness.”_ He says Papa’s title slowly, mockingly. Papa licks his lips and tries to yank his hand away from Father’s tight grip on him; Father resists him. “Shall we sit?”

The food that is brought out aren’t any of the Genoshan specialties that Papa sometimes gets homesick for and put in special requests for, they aren’t the fish dishes of the Isle of the Sky or the tropical stews and grills of Carnelia. They’re just… regular dishes. Like usual, Papa takes Nina’s plate and helps her cut her mushroom steak—Nina refuses to eat meat or fish, anything that can talk to her. Across the table, Scott is trying to convince Laura to let him do the same and not just spear the beef shank with her claws and eat off of them. Jean isn’t sitting with them today; she’s seated amid the heart of the Genoshans so that she can translate the discourse between kings. Peter stares at a big, hulking man seated across from him, overgrown with blond hair, who grins at him like he wanted to eat him.

But for all that the small talk seems as boring and lifeless as it is at every one of these feasts for a visiting dignitary, there is an undeniable tension that ripples through the whole court every time Shaw opens his mouth to talk. Pleasantries about the weather, about the hunting trip. A veiled jab at Father about his infirmity, but though it makes Peter stab his fork moodily into his bread, it’s nothing new, and Father doesn’t even blink.

Shaw speaks fast—fast enough that sometimes Peter can’t keep up, although he thinks that Wanda, who’s always been better with both Genoshan and Westchesterian than him, might be. Jean, too, sometimes has to frown and ask him to slow down. Only Papa seems to be able to follow him effortlessly, and it seems he is not interested in where Lord Shaw might lead. He rarely speaks, and when he does it is in Westchesterian; he occupies himself totally with his plate, with the roast squab wings that Father has saved for him the way he always does.

And then Shaw says, “I heard you dealt with the Reach Rebellion well.” Apprehension crosses Jean’s face and she puts down her utensils, perhaps to concentrate better on translating. Shaw seems to have no such compunction. He chews on a morsel of meat and says, “I appreciate the need at times for a stern hand when dealing with the common people. The government was much decentralized when I took power. It took many years to consolidate power and find lieutenants I could trust.” Papa’s fist is clenched around his fork. It scrapes against the surface of his plate with a painful _screech._ “That was my predecessor’s great mistake, of course. Trusting the wrong people. Getting his family killed and his son given over to a be a foreign King’s whore—”

“I’m not translating that,” Jean says sharply, just as Papa throws his fork down and snarls—in Genoshan!—“In spite of what you led me to believe when you brought me here, I’m no one’s whore.”

“Erik,” Father murmurs, not understanding what he’s saying, but catching his tone. Papa shakes his head furiously.

“Yes,” Shaw says, cool and unruffled. “I was gratified to see you had flourished here, Your Highness, the way that omegas here are… hmm. Used to a far gentler hand.” It’s a Genoshan saying Peter recognizes—Papa says that himself occasionally, that omegas are treated with a gentler hand than they are where he was born, and that he and Wanda are both stronger than what alphas are always telling them is possible or polite. But Papa doesn’t seem pleased to agree; he grits his teeth, muscles jumping in his jaw. “ _Have_ you flourished here?” Shaw asks when Papa doesn’t say anything. “Only three babes in ten years—why, your mother bore twice that many—”

“—don’t talk about my mother—”

“Perhaps we can arrange for you to take a Genoshan remedy for infertility?” Shaw suggests. Jean gasps. Peter’s not certain why she looks so scandalized; next to him, Wanda is shifting uncomfortably, confusion but also worry on her face. Father is tense, leaning forward, but both Shaw and Papa are barely aware of them, their worlds and gazes narrowed in on each other.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Papa snaps.

“Your highness,” Shaw says, so respectful it borders on parody, “I only want for you to be of the greatest utility to your mate. After all, you are not so young and beautiful as you once were… and I have half a dozen potential concubines for my lord for the asking, since the last one turned out so well—”

Papa gasps, as though he’s been struck with a mortal blow, and stands. At once, the low chatter and eating-sounds throughout the hall fall silent. Father can do nothing—if he grasps at Papa and Papa leaves anyway, his authority is undermined—so it is Peter who reaches out to Papa’s tunic, tugging lightly. But Papa brushes him off and storms out of the feasting hall, his shoulders high as though bracing for an attack from behind. Shaw, smiling, lifts another morsel to his mouth; beside him, the huge hairy general laughs. Father grinds his teeth and says, slowly, “I apologize for my husband’s abruptness. He was not feeling well earlier today.”

Father has told Peter many times that courtly lies are acceptable, though never to the ones you love, but Peter doesn’t think this is a courtly lie. Peter thinks that Papa has not been _well_ since he hear that the Genoshan envoy was coming, and that he will not be well again till they leave.

Under the table, Wanda pinches him, and he nods at her, at Nina on Father’s other side, on Laura a few seats down. Time for the back-up plan.  
  
  
  
INTERLUDE: LAURA

Laura excuses herself to use the washroom. Daddy barely notices, he’s so occupied with whatever he’s saying to Mama in his mind, so she figures she has about ten minutes before she’s missed. She slips out from under his arm—all the adults have been so _protective_ with the Genoshans here, as though Laura can’t slice up anything that comes for her or those under her protection—and pads into the hallway. Part of her gift is that she can see better in the dark than most, so with the torches blazing in their braziers it’s practically bright as day. The servants are carrying platters of food to the tables and bringing back picked-clean trays, and they’re so used to the royal children running underfoot that they sway to avoid her instinctively. She takes one look at the bustle of people in the main halls and decides that Uncle Erik would have wanted somewhere more private to hide.

She looks behind the tapestries that conceal secret passageways; the alcoves, just off the main hallway, too small to be halls or rooms themselves but large enough to be invisible from the rush of servants’ traffic; the secret steps that lead from the kitchen to the tower where the royal family has its quarters, the King and his Consort in the room at the base, their children in the rooms above them. She finds Uncle Erik crouched on one of the steps, curled up small, his arms around his knees.

She moves quietly to him, so quietly he doesn’t seem to register her, despite the metal buttons of her dress, until she’s arm’s-length from him. “Uncle Erik?” she says softly.

“Oh!” He scrubs at his face. “Laura—shouldn’t you be at the feast?” he says, sounding very confused and very lost.

“You too,” Laura insists.

“Oh…” Uncle Erik sighs, “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t… stay there any longer.” His shoulders shake. She’s never seen him like this before—he’s so strong, so capable—and now it’s as if he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. She throws her arms around him without thinking and he makes a soft choked noise in the back of his throat.

In an instant, his arms go around her, and she cuddles him as fiercely as he sometimes holds her and his own children. Uncle Erik, along with Logan, is her _favorite—_ he teaches her how to ride and how to fight and how to say “thank you” in a way that seems polite but really isn’t—and he’s an omega besides, and Daddy always said that as an alpha it’s her _responsibility_ to protect omegas, and usually that means Wanda and Peter, but Laura thinks that right now Uncle Erik could use a bit of protection too. She keeps her eyes open, in case a threat is going to loom out of them in the dark hidden stairwell, and doesn’t say anything as Uncle Erik’s hot tears drip down his face and onto her shoulder. She’s cried on him before, and he just stroked her back and hummed at her, so she tries to do that now, the silly song that Wanda was teaching her last week. He chuckles and tilts his head against her shoulder.

Uncle Erik’s hand gently strokes through her hair, and she tries not to make the same purring sound that Uncle Erik’s cat makes when she’s happy. This is _serious._ Uncle Erik needs _help._ She gruffly squeezes him, and he squeezes back, and when they break apart his eyes are wet but his mouth is smiling. “I am blessed by the gods and goddess,” he says, that sweet, old-fashioned turn of phrase that no one else ever says, “to have such wonderful family by my side.”

Laura hugs him again. When he’d stormed out of the feasting hall, her heart had skipped a beat. Uncle Erik is wild and indecorous—exactly the things she wants to be when she grows up, but Uncle Erik can only get away with them because he’s the King’s Consort, and she’s just a Lady—but he’d never left a formal feast before in her memory. The adults have been protective, Peter has been protective, and she’s been guarding Uncle Erik all day, but this is the first time the stakes have really struck home. Whatever this Shaw had been saying to Erik, he has to be _stopped_. He has to be kept away from the people she loves at all costs. She still doesn’t understand why she can’t just slash up anyone hurting her family, but Peter and Wanda are older than she is and better at this than her, so she follows their leads. But if Shaw and his party don’t leave soon, she won’t be held responsible for her actions.

Laura buries her head in the crook of Uncle Erik’s neck, and thinks that Peter and Wanda better know what they’re doing with the back-up plan.  
  
  
  
SECOND ACT: WANDA

Wanda rises early the next day. She sits in front of her mirror, brushing her hair out, and staring into the bronze swirls, the polished texture of its surface. She thinks about one of the generals—the pretty one, the one that Shaw had only communicated to with hand signs—he’s probably the one who would be most affected by a blemish on his complexion. She puts down her brush, takes a deep breath, and says,

_“Gods and goddess, make this simple,_  
_Take this man and give him pimples.”_

The fizz of her gift runs through her, briefly turning the air scarlet. Humming, she finishes braiding her hair, and skips outside to wake Pietro so they can start the day.  
  
  
  
Papa is sleeping in—he hasn’t done that since he’d just given birth to Nina—but Father smiles wearily at them when they peek their heads into his chambers. “Peter, Wanda,” he says, from where he’s bent over some papers. Wanda sneaks a look at them; they’re reminders of key negotiation points for the Genoshans today. Papa always tells Father not to hunch, that he’ll give himself a terrible muscle spasm that way, but Father never listens. “How are your studies going?”

Wanda dutifully recites a fact about geology. Peter tells a story about tormenting his maths tutor by quickly moving his chair out of reach when he went to sit down.

“Have you had breakfast?” Father asks. When they say no, he lets them help themselves from the remains of his own tray; Wanda eats a fried egg, Peter opens his mouth and inhales everything else left. “You can stay,” Father says. “But I have to go meet the Genoshans in ten minutes.”

“Can I come?” Wanda asks. She likes negotiations. Sometimes she’ll play Negotiations with her unwilling siblings, or a more-willing Jean, and trade responsibilities and lessons and little trinkets like marbles.

Father grimaces. That’s a no. Fine, Wanda will just have to do her work from a distance, then.

Father tells them not to wake Papa, then heads to the negotiations. Peter and Wanda sit outside Father’s chambers, playing a rhyming game with the guards, until Nina, yawning and stuffing her face with a cream pastry, and Laura, chomping at the bit to bury her claws in some Genoshan thighs, come and find them. Peter draws them down the hallway, assigns them their tasks, and in a moment they’re off, with Laura loitering behind to guard Papa when he wakes up, Nina heading down to the stables, and Peter taking off to find the Genoshans. Wanda follows him, at a more sedate pace. Unlike Peter, she’s not in any rush.  
  
  
  
There’s an ugly gargoyle-like sculpture that perches in the corner of the grand hall. What most of the servants don’t know—and Father _must_ have known this once, but has forgotten, in the way that adults forget the secrets of being a child—is that if you cram yourself under a shelf in the rookery and push the boards apart, you can crawl into the gargoyle and listen to everything that goes on in the grand hall.

The first thing Wanda notices is that only two generals flank Lord Shaw today—the pretty one is abed then, presumably struck down with boils, though she doesn’t know where the great blond shaggy one is. She tries to listen avidly to Father’s negotiations; she feels it’s her duty to be good at _something_ as a princess—Peter certainly isn’t going to grow up to take Jean’s place as a court diplomat, and Nina will be busy with ruling and is too young to tell what kind of royal she’ll be besides—but she likes secrets more than she likes the frigid politeness of actual negotiations, and falls to drowsing. She only wakes when they have platters of food brought in for lunch, and she focuses this time on the red-skinned man as he gets up and deliberates over the pastries.

She whispers:

_With my words this cloak I bind,_  
_Trip and tangle and unwind._

A burst of scarlet which briefly illuminates the gargoyle’s eyes—thankfully, no one is looking. The red-skinned general lifts a pastry to his mouth and tries to head back to his seat—and then trips over the swiftly unraveling hem of his cloak. Wanda stifles a giggle. It doesn’t last for long—smoke fills the air and suddenly he’s vanished and then is no longer standing within the cloak but next to it, holding it up and examining it curiously as the hem continues to trail fabric. Must be shoddy workmanship.

Wanda makes apples rotten, makes drafts colder, ties the only woman’s laced sandals together, although she notices before she stands and tries to move and undoes them. About an hour after lunch, a messenger arrives to tell them that the horses have all run off, and Wanda smiles. That’s Nina, then. The woman leaves to deal with that, as the red-skinned man is shivering without his cloak and clearly doesn’t want to go outside, and Shaw looks increasingly annoyed. By the time the negotiations end, she’s drooping, exhausted. Her tutors help her explore her gifts, whether she needs to come up with a little rhyme to make them work or whether it just helps her focus, what she can do consciously and what she can do instinctively, but although none of the tasks she’s attempted today have been very onerous, there have been so _many_ of them, and she hasn’t gotten to get any lunch, and anyway she still needs to get ready for the main event at supper today, something to stop Lord Shaw’s mouth before he can say anything cruel to Papa again.

Tired, she climbs out of the gargoyle just as negotiations break up, makes her way through the rookery, and meets the others in a little corridor off the kitchens. She picks at Genoshan winterberries, bursting bitter on her tongue, as the others share their stories of mischief managed today. Nina proudly recounts how she’d convinced the horses to run halfway back to Genosha before they could be caught up with, and how two of the horses are still missing. Peter darkly mentions how he’d followed the big blond general stalking the halls, and how Laura had gotten into a scrap with him that ended with her claws embedded in his hip and him laughing as he plucked her off like a fly and healed over, just like Logan could.

“He was lookin’ at Peter like he was going to eat him,” Laura explains sullenly. “So I got my claws out and told him to stop being a creep, and he couldn’t even understand me but he laughed at me anyway, so I stabbed him, and he just picked me up and threw me and he didn’t even flinch.” Wanda winces at this account; Laura is small, even smaller than Nina, but she’s sharp-edged and bitey and _scary_ , everyone but their family thinks so, and she’s savaged a few servants who were being cruel to their omega counterparts and has gotten a reputation around the court as willing to scar anyone who picked her up. “I tried to go after him again but Uncle Erik was calling so I left with him.”

“I tripped him up so he couldn’t follow,” Peter explains. “I don’t know what he was going to do with Papa, but it couldn’t be good.”

“Why wasn’t he in the grand hall?” Nina asks.

Wanda thinks back to Papa asking after a “Creed,” and Shaw, smiling, saying that Victor wasn’t well-suited to long meetings. Now she wonders whether Shaw had sent this general after Papa on purpose, to frighten him or threaten him or just make him sad. But at least Peter and Laura had managed to distract him from his target, who’d been in the library and had missed the whole thing.

Wanda gives a dry, factual account of all the ways she could think of inconveniencing Lord Shaw and his allies, and Peter beams at her and Nina hugs her and Laura nods approvingly, like a small general. “Daddy will want me back soon to get into my feasting clothes,” Laura says, making a face, which lets Wanda know just how late it is. Papa is surely looking for them—if he’s left the King’s chambers at all, as Laura reports he rarely has today. They bid farewell to Laura and troop in the direction of the squat tower where the royal suits are located.

They’re turning a corner when they almost bump into someone. Wanda looks up, and her breath catches; it’s the woman general, who is frigidly beautiful, even harried and disheveled-looking from an afternoon rounding up the horses that Nina had sent away. Wanda has seen her skin change to a sparkling hard jewel, but right now it’s soft and pale and she looks like anyone, but that she is dressed in the skins and pelts of the Genoshans, all dyed white to match her silver-blond hair. She looks down at them, seeming not to recognize them for a moment, but then she smiles. “Ah,” she says, in Genoshan. Wanda wonders if she knows that they can understand her. “Erik’s brats.”

Peter scowls at her. Nina frowns, an expression she’s mimicked from Father, a severe, disappointed look that she will wear often when she’s Queen. Only Wanda detects a hint of fondness in that insult, a disrespectful familiarity but not a disdainful one.

Wanda tips her chin up and says, “My lady. I hope the horse escape was dealt with quickly and didn’t cause you too much… trouble.”

The general stares at her, like she’s putting something together—and then laughs, shocked and bright. Perhaps it was risky, revealing their involvement in the troubles the Genoshans have had, but Wanda feels reckless, Wanda wants to butt heads with someone who’s been causing her Papa such distress. “My,” the general says, a begrudging smile coming to her lips. “You certainly are your father’s children.”

And then she bows to them. A low, deferential bow; Peter sputters and Nina looks to Wanda to figure out what to do, and Wanda curtsies, shallow but heartfelt. “My lady,” she says, and the general laughs again and continues on her way, smiling as though she’d seen something extraordinary. “Come on,” Wanda says to Peter and Nina, not thinking too much about that encounter—it feels as though she’s skirted the edge of something dangerous, but the danger is over now, and she thinks she came off rather the better of it. Up the stairs to Father’s chambers, where they find Papa combing out Father’s hair before gently placing the crown on his head.

“Should I even ask what mischief you’ve been up to?” Papa says wearily, but he smiles at them, and he almost looks like the same Papa. He chases them into their second-feast-day clothes, which are no longer in their Father’s yellow-and-blue colors but colors they picked out themselves. Wanda laces up a rose-blush dress that she picked out herself at the seamstress’s and then helps Nina into her rich, velvet brown dress while Papa fights with Peter over getting his silver doublet over his head. Father smiles at them as Papa bullies them into their clothes; he doesn’t take part, the way he sometimes does, instead reading over the treaty draft they’d prepared this morning and afternoon. When they’re all decent, Father stands and takes Papa’s hand and leads them all to the feasting hall.

Wanda and Peter switch seats today, with Wanda sitting closest to Papa and Peter on her other side; the closer she is to Shaw, the easier it will be for her to use her gift, she reasons. Papa sits straight-backed and inscrutable; Wanda sneaks her hand under the table to grasp his, and he looks down at her, surprised, but his expression melts into fondness. Wanda looks up at him seriously. Papa has spent their whole lives protecting them. Wanda will make sure that when he needs it, he has protection himself. They’re family, and that’s what family does. Papa presses a kiss to her hair, as though he can sense what she’s thinking, and she beams at him.

The Genoshans file in, and Wanda registers for the first time how _unfair_ it is that Papa’s first encounter with the people he left behind are the man who killed his family (she imagines losing Papa and Father and Nina and even Peter and being bartered off to a foreign king and shudders) and those loyal to him. She thinks there’s a wealth of hurt there that Papa still hasn’t told anyone, not even Father. Wanda knows her Papa; she thinks she probably knows him best, out of all his children and even his husband. Nina likes riding best and Peter likes sparring best, but Wanda is the one who’s spent quiet mornings with Papa watching him turn metal into art, Wanda is the one he tells stories to, the myths of his youth and the stories in the books he’s read since he came to Westchester, Wanda is the one who knows the tales of his siblings and his parents, though Peter had been the one to uncover how they’d died. And she is sensitive to his pain now, but she doesn’t cry, though she feels tears well up in her eyes. She’s going to do something about it.

Shaw kisses Papa’s hand again, and this time Papa jerks away the moment after his lips touch his skin, decorum be damned, and Father doesn’t say anything at all. They sit, the servants bring out the food—the little roasted birds Papa likes, it seems that they, too, have noticed his distress—and Wanda watches. Wanda lets go of Papa’s hand under the table and clenches her hands into little fists. She’s never tried anything like this before, anything this big, without a rhyme to guide her. She concentrates. She concentrates.

Peter takes her elbow, and it helps to ground her. Maybe it’s because they came into the world at the same moment, but her powers have always come easier when Peter is around. She stares as Shaw spears a tiny roasted bird with his fork and brings it to his mouth. She stares as he tears into it. She stares as he chews—

She thinks:

_This creature caught ‘tween fork and knife_  
_Bring it now to breathing life—_

Under the table, her hands flare red.

Shaw chokes. Gags. Spits out a live quail that screams in his face and flutters indignantly before taking to the rafters of the feasting hall.

At once the court erupts into chaos. Wanda has a bare moment of satisfaction—that’ll teach him to poison the air with his terrible words and cruel insinuations—before Shaw’s eyes set on her, burning, cold, and she realizes— _he knows._ He knows what her gift is, that she has control over all the things that might be, that could be, even the improbable, even the _impossible,_ like a cooked bird coming back to life in the mouth, and he lunges across the table and grasps her arm and jerks her toward him until she’s stretched halfway across the table and her elbow is in her dinner and she’s crying out. Peter cries out next to her, and slams his fists into Shaw’s arm, and on the other side of Papa and Father Nina starts to scream. A few seats down comes the tell-tale _schlick_ of Laura’s claws, but Shaw’s grip is hot and unyielding on her arms and his eyes _burn_ as they set on her, and she realizes he’s going to kill her.

“I wondered why this trip was going so poorly,” he says in Westchesterian. “I should’ve known—the monstrous brats of a cursed union—”

Wanda screams. Around her, the tumult of a court in chaos like she’s only seen a couple of times in her life. Her Father’s advisers are shouting, squaring off against Shaw’s generals, Father is snarling at Shaw to let go of her, she reaches for her power but comes up empty and afraid—

—and then Papa drives a knife into Shaw’s sleeve and says, calm and steady, “Let go of her or I will kill you.”

Shaw must sense something in Papa’s voice, some fierce unbending truth, because he does. Wanda, feeling bruises already forming on her wrist, scrambles backward and buries her face in Papa’s waist. Peter puts his arms around her, but she barely notices, she’s so focused on the—almost serenity—on Papa’s face, the way he still clutches the knife that is pinning Shaw’s sleeve to the table, the way every other piece of cutlery on the table has started to vibrate with his power. Shaw sneers and looks straight past Papa, to Father, who is white but for two splotches of red high on his cheeks. “Control your mate and children,” Shaw snaps. “Or we’ll see how much this peace is really worth.”

But resolve has darkened Father’s eyes. He stands, towering over Shaw, who is still pinned to the table; gestures, and at once the guards stand at attention from where they’ve been ogling the action like everyone else. Swords are unsheathed; spears are leveled. Shaw’s men are surrounded—Logan, though much smaller, is menacing the big blond brute that had gone after Papa today, Ororo’s fists crackle with lightning as she bears down on the pretty general, who still hasn’t recovered from the boils Wanda cursed him with, Aunt Raven and Scott each stand ready to tackle the general across from them, and Wanda realizes that each of Father’s advisers had been informed how best to use their abilities, had been seated across from those most vulnerable to their gifts, should things turn sour, that Father has been _preparing_ for this as much as Peter and Wanda’s little cabal have.

Father places his fingers to his temple, a clear threat. And he broadcasts—Wanda’s mouth falls open—he doesn’t even use his telepathy on _his children,_ and he could, they’re his property, but he loves them too much to invade their mental privacy like that—to _everyone,_ a vicious slight to Shaw and his people. _I know how much my family is worth to me,_ he says, his lips unmoving, his crown gleaming, looking every inch the stern and proud king. _Continue on this path and we’ll find out how much this peace is worth to you._

Shaw snarls. But, grudgingly, deliberately, he lifts his free hand in a gesture of harmlessness.

“Erik,” Father says, and Papa withdraws the knife from the table. But with a gesture, it buries itself into the wood grain right next to Shaw’s hand, only a hairsbreadth away, close enough that he can probably feel the cool of the metal as the knife trembles where it slammed into the table with such force.

“We’ll have to get the whole damn table replaced,” Logan grumbles.

Needless to say, the feast ends early.  
  
  
  
CODA: NINA

They’re watching the Genoshans ride out—they’d had to borrow a couple of horses from the stables, as two of their horses still hadn’t been recovered—from the parapet that’s the best place to watch the soldiers train as the stars begin to peek out from the clouds. They’re still in their finery from the feast, and it’s difficult to see by the darkness, but through the torch-light in the courtyard they can see dark shadows moving swiftly toward the city gate. Once Shaw and his party are out of sight, Wanda shudders. They’ve all clustered around her, trying to shake off the awful image of Shaw grabbing her and dragging her across the table as she screamed. Laura is clinging to the back of her dress; Nina is clutching her hand, while on her other side Peter tucks her close. “Do you think Father and the others would have been able to stop him?”

“Of course,” Laura says confidently.

Nina nods. “Father and Jean are _telepaths.”_

“And Papa is the strongest person in the world,” Peter adds. “It doesn’t matter what gifts Shaw and his people had. You were in no danger.”

Wanda is quiet, and Nina suspects she’s not so sure. Maybe she knows something about Shaw’s powers. “He didn’t think it was worth a fight,” Nina points out, and finally, Wanda relaxes. She smiles at Nina and pats her head, and Nina doesn’t protest because she knows Wanda needs to feel very grown-up and accomplished now, so she lets herself be coddled like a doll.

They stay on the parapet for a while, watching the lights of the city flicker and dance. Sometimes Wanda and Peter sneak off to the city to entertain themselves for a while, though never at night as far as Nina knows, and she’s never been invited on one of their excursions before. She thinks next time she’ll go anyway. Finally Alex comes to get them. Alex is part of Papa’s guard, but he’s been tasked with running after his children more often than not. He smiles wearily at them and says, “Your Highnesses. The Royal Consort requests your presence in the library.”

At least they’re not in trouble. When they are, Papa has them sent to their chambers at the top of the tower so he can shout at them in peace. They follow Alex down the stairs to the library, which sprawls across the third floor; there’s an entrance right under Papa and Father’s chambers. Papa is curled up next to a window, a heavy illustrated book in his lap. He smiles when he sees them, and gestures for them to gather around him.

“This was my favorite tale when I was a boy,” he says, gesturing to the book by way of explanation. “I was thrilled when I learned there was a version of it in Westchester, and I could reread it and imagine my mother telling it to me when I was a boy.” He turns the pages slowly so they can all see. The pages are illuminated in gilt, the lavish illustrations of a sun peeking out from every page. “The sun falls in love with a hero, you see, and abandons his path in the sky to follow him around. He tries to protect him from everything—he burns brighter on his enemies, he shines through the darkness of night so that the hero can travel. But eventually, he has to return to his place in the sky, because it’s not for beings as bright and eternal as the sun to concern themselves with mere mortals.” He looks at them kindly. “My darlings. I thank you for protecting me so fiercely. You are brave and wild and I am proud to call you my children—you included, Laura. But it is not your remit to protect _me._ It is _mine_ to protect _you._ And I’m only sorry that I was too distracted these past weeks to manage it.”

“No!” Peter says sharply, and Nina shakes her head, dismayed. Laura rushes forward and clings to Papa’s knees.

Only Wanda bites her lips and says, unconvincingly, “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Papa smiles at her indulgently. “I know that Laura here has been glued to my side since the envoy arrived, and that _someone,_ ” he twinkles at Nina, “let the horses out and encouraged them to run all the way back to their home, and I know that _someone else,_ ” he places a hand on Wanda’s head, “has been making life difficult for every member of the party, even putting what happened at dinner aside, and I know that all of this reeks of a third mysterious person’s mischief.” He looks mock-sternly at Peter, who grins unrepentantly.

“If I hadn’t been so caught up in my emotions,” Papa says, “I would have seen it sooner. And I thank you. Sincerely. I thank you for reminding me that I am blessed beyond measure by the gods and goddess with wonderful children and a beloved husband and a people I would do anything to protect. That my life is so much more than I thought it would be when I was a boy at Shaw’s mercy.” He looks at each of them in turn, and Nina can feel the warm glow of his regard, and she swells and brims over with love. “But you must _never_ do that again, do you understand me? You put yourselves in danger. If any of you had gotten hurt…” he lingers over Wanda’s wrist, covered now by her dress sleeve, but everyone knows what he’s thinking of… “I could not have borne it. I would have suffered tenfold, a thousandfold, over what I suffered because of Shaw’s presence. Do you understand?”

“But Papa,” Nina says, “you were so _sad_.”

Papa’s expression, so serene and gentle, crumples, and he opens his arms and is swarmed with children. He holds them all in his embrace, his expansive embrace with love over-flowing for them, stroking hair, kissing foreheads. “Oh, my darlings. Oh, my loves. I am one of the _only_ ones who is not and never will be your responsibility. You must save your energy for the people of Westchester, the ones who _do_ rely on you for protection and care, or will, when you’re grown. For now, you are children, though brave and fierce ones, and responsible for nothing save the enjoyment of life and youth.”

“Are we just to turn away when you’re hurting?” Wanda whimpers.

“How could I hurt when I have you?” Papa asks, and Nina buries her face in his shoulder and breathes in the scent of berries and sage and winter ice. Here, in the flickering light of the library cast by a fire in the hearth, with darkness settling outside but not encroaching on their circle of love and family, she memorizes the feeling of having done a good job, of having protected someone that needed protecting, no matter what her Papa says. She memorizes the feeling of her siblings and Laura having her back, and her Papa’s arms around her, and years later, when she is crowned, when she is leading troops into battle, when darkness shadows the edges of her world, she will cling to this moment, this moment in the library, the moment she realized her Papa was crying hot and grateful tears.

 _We did that,_ she thinks. _We kept him safe. Safe enough to hold us now, safe enough to think that next time we should let him protect himself._ But that was the beauty of family: no one _needed_ to stand on their own. She thinks she understands why Papa insists that they take care of each other, even if he didn’t quite mean they should take care of _him_ and Father too. But they will. They’re strong and they’re together; there’s nothing they can’t do.

Papa kisses the crown of each head in front of them and lets them go. “Come,” he says, “let me tell you the story," and they curl in front of him, and listen.

**Author's Note:**

> To thank [flightinflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/pseuds/flightinflame) for helping make the dream of the "Erik Lehnsherr Defense Squad" tag a canonical reality, I offered to write her a short (!!) ficlet. She asked for "laura and peter being the LITERAL erik xavier/lehnsherr defence squad in dtsverse." Expanded to include the whole gang!!
> 
> I am at tumblr as [homoethics](https://homoethics.tumblr.com/). Please comment; constructive criticism welcome.


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